Portrayal of Death
by Rinkinkirs
Summary: But the grey eyes wouldn’t leave his mind, as if someone had cast a sticking charm on them: Cedric’s eyes clinging to life when it was long gone. One-sided Harry/Cedric, with a dash of Phineas. Slash.


**Summary:** "…but the grey eyes wouldn't leave his mind, as if someone had cast a sticking charm on them, Cedric's eyes clinging to life when it was long gone." One-sided Harry/Cedric with a dash of Phineas.  
**Words:** 798  
**Notes:** Probably the weirdest thing I've ever written, which really does say something… A little disturbing, perhaps.  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own anyone, I don't earn anything.

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**Portrayal of Death**

Harry lay on his bed in the room he shared with Ron at Grimmauld Place, face buried in his pillow. Hermione and Ron had wisely retreated to somewhere else, sensing that company would do no good for his mood.

He had spent most of the summer having nightmares, only relieved by dreams that might as well have been (_parted lips, grey eyes, strong arms_) and his not entirely allowed night walks. While the world outside rushed by, Private Drive had stagnated some time after he started Hogwarts – it was the same as ever, with the same, dusty room, the same insults, and more nightmares he tried not to scream from.

"_Who's Cedric? Your boyfriend?"_

With a muffled groan, he turned on his side to face the wall – but the grey eyes wouldn't leave his mind when they had first entered it, as if someone had cast a sticking charm on it like Mrs Black's portrait, Cedric's eyes clinging to life when it was long gone. Cedric was looking at him. Cedric was sliding his hands up his chest, down his stomach.

Cedric was dead.

Harry turned his face into the pillow as he gave an agonised scream – he wanted it to stop, just _stop_. Dudley had been wrong, and now Harry's mind was contemplating _what ifs _and_ maybes _and_ if only_. If only he had pushed Cedric away from the curse. If only he was the one to die.

If only Cedric was alive.

But Cedric was dead.

His hands lingered on Harry's skin like tendrils of cold, phantom pains spreading from where his nails would leave marks. His toes were cold against Harry's feet, his thighs warmly wrapped around him. His palm slid across moist skin, passing his heart, passing his stomach, caressing his skin –

Harry's hand curled gently around himself. He didn't want to, but he had to let Cedric go. He had to release him, and his twisted obsession could only be released in such a manner.

When he muttered "Cedric" into his pillow, his eyes were filled with tears and his hand soiled.

He heard a strange grumbling from the wall, and looked up. There was a portrait there, depicting a man who looked a little like Sirius. He had black hair and grey eyes, but his posture and the way he peered down his nose at Harry made him seem regal to a degree he doubted Sirius had ever managed, even before Azkaban.

Harry stared at him, wondering whether he should cover himself up.

"_Cedric_, you say?" the portrait said. "The Diggory boy. Well, well…"

There was a victorious smirk on his face. Harry stared up at him – he was definitely a Black.

"Now, Potter," he spat, a sly glint in his eye, "if you don't remove those trousers, the portrait gossip at Hogwarts will involve a certain scarred individual, come next year."

Harry's mind blanked.

He shook his head briefly to clear his thoughts. No one could know. He was tired of rumours, tired of flirting, tired of being abandoned. Someone had put heavy knight armour on his body, yet it was cut through like butter.

His jeans fell to the floor next to the bed, and he looked up at the Black portrait again. There was a name underneath the frame. _Phineas Nigellus Black_, it said.

"Good," Phineas said, looking at him stoically. "Now spread your legs."

Harry let his thighs fall apart, hesitating briefly.

"Put two fingers in your mouth."

Harry's breath was heavier, now, as he slowly slipped two digits between chapped lips. Phineas looked pleased, rearranging his robes without averting his eyes. A blush was spreading across Harry's face.

Phineas stared at him with one eyebrow raised, reminding him of Snape.

Instead of killing his minor excitement, his blood heated, rushing through his veins, and a small gasp left his lips.

"Phineas," he whispered hoarsely. "Why…"

He let his voice trail off, looking at the serene man in the portrait. His eyes were gray…

A tear slid down his cheek, and Phineas told him to catch it on his fingers.

"Absorb the tears," he sneered. "Let them not absorb you. Such a pathetic child could never save even a kneazle."

But his eyes were not Cedric's – Cedric's had been warm and soft. Phineas's eyes were cold and indifferent.

His wet fingers trailed down his body of their own accord, and Phineas followed them with his unblinking stare. Phineas told him to stop before he could grip himself, and he did, at a loss to comprehend his own actions.

"Up on your knees," Phineas said. "Open yourself with your fingers."

As Harry once more cried out Cedric's release, Phineas burned his desperation into his memory.

"It is done," he whispered.

Harry sighed.

Outside, silvery clouds winked out of existence.


End file.
